Looking for Yesterday Page 5

  I slipped onto the stool next to him, said, “Jake Green?”

  He glanced at me, then looked away. His features were familiar from my files, but now fleshy and bloated.

  “Mr. Green…”

  “If you’re a bill collector, go away. I’ve only got twenty bucks on me, and that’s my drinking money.”

  “I’m not a bill collector.”

  “Then I don’t care who you are. Go away.”

  I slid one of my cards in front of him. “Caro Warrick has hired me to look into the death of Amelia Bettencourt.”

  He glanced at the card, shrugged. “I’m done with all of that. She got her acquittal, what more does she want?”

  “She’s coauthoring a book on the crime—”

  “Oh, shit, just what I need. Spread my name around, wreck whatever little I got built up here. You think it was easy, all that publicity? You think I liked having my face in the tabloids? All I ever wanted was a quiet, comfortable life. And I was on my way to having it, too. But the notoriety—my clients defected, I became nonproductive to the brokerage, so I bought the travel agency. Now the economy’s in the pits, and whoever’s traveling—mostly businesspeople—goes on the cheap. And there’s the Internet.…”

  “That’s a real run of bad luck. Especially losing Amelia. You were there that night. You found Amelia’s body and someone shot at you too. I know it must’ve been very difficult—”

  “Damn straight! One day I had a pretty good life, solid prospects, and the next day they’re gone, all gone.” He paused, apparently listening to echoes of what he’d just said. “Oh, God. Why can’t Caro let it alone?”

  “Did you know Ms. Warrick is in the hospital?”

  His startled expression indicated he hadn’t. “How come?”

  “Someone beat her, probably with a hammer. She’s in a coma.”

  “A hammer? Christ! Well, it wasn’t me.”

  Too quick to spring to your own defense, buddy.

  “I’m thinking it must’ve been somebody who didn’t want her to coauthor that book,” I said. “You have any idea who that might be?”

  “Pretty much anybody who was involved with the murder. Maybe somebody with something to hide.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, the person who really killed Amelia.”

  “You were the one who directed suspicion at Ms. Warrick in the first place.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve had time to think on that.”

  “To what conclusion?”

  “Why don’t you talk to her parents?” And that was all he’d say on the subject.

  6:45 p.m.

  The Warricks didn’t answer their phone, and I didn’t want to leave a message on the machine that would give them time to invent an excuse not to see me. Just as well—Hy and I had planned a quiet dinner for two at a favorite Czech restaurant in our neighborhood. At a little past eight, over chicken paprikash we talked of his travels and my doings since he’d left for Europe, talk that included work, but none of the specifics. Both RI and McCone Investigations had strict confidentiality rules—even between the respective owners.

  Over coffee and brandy he took my hand and asked, “You thought any more about my proposition?”

  Last September he’d suggested we merge our businesses. The benefits to me were great: it would give me access to a worldwide network of offices and operatives, and attract a larger and more lucrative clientele. Plus give me half ownership of a fleet of pretty slick jets. But I still had my doubts about ceding absolute control over McCone Investigations, even to Hy, and I wasn’t sure that a high-powered executive protection firm was a good fit with our personalized service.

  Now I reiterated those doubts to him.

  “We discussed all that before,” he said. “A merger wouldn’t mean either firm would lose its autonomy, but it would allow us to tap into each other’s resources more easily. And we’d enjoy better tax breaks.”

  Tax breaks. The holy grail of American corporations.

  “And,” he added, “we wouldn’t have to hold these dinner conversations where neither of us can tell the other exactly what’s going on.”

  That remark tipped the scales slightly in his favor.

  “What would we call the company?” I asked.

  “I haven’t gotten that far in my thinking.”

  “Would we need to combine offices?”

  “Well, McCone Investigations would become the primary US division, and RI would deal with international clients, so that probably wouldn’t matter. But close proximity would be advantageous.”

  I thought of the little blue building on Sly Lane, where I’d only just gotten settled down. RI clients weren’t likely to appreciate such casual quarters; we’d have to move again.

  Hy saw the doubt in my eyes and squeezed my hand. “We don’t have to decide anything right away. Just keep in mind that we’d get to spend more time together. Work together.”

  “That I’d like.”

  “Then give it some serious thought. No hurry, no pressure.”

  My phone rang before I could reply: the floor nurse at SF General’s trauma unit. Caro Warrick had just died from a cerebral hemorrhage.

  “Have you contacted her family?” I asked the nurse.

  “Her brother and sister have been contacted. The parents aren’t available.”

  I thanked her and broke the connection. Said to Hy, “It’s a case for Homicide now. And I’ve lost a client. She lied to me, she was a seriously disturbed individual, but in an odd way I liked her.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, she’d been through a lot, but until recently she’d stood up for her convictions on gun control. I sensed something had spooked her, made her back off. She seemed afraid of something or somebody. Damn! I should’ve questioned her more closely.”

  “Case closed, McCone. Let’s talk about us now.”

  “Let’s.”

  Right—case closed. Or so I thought at the time.

  FRIDAY, JANUARY 6

  9:16 a.m.

  Apparently I was still employed, however. My cell vibrated as I was pulling into my assigned parking space in the underground garage at the blue building. A male voice asked that I hold for Greta Goldstein.

  Who? Oh, yes, Caro’s coauthor on the true-crime book.

  Goldstein came on the line, her voice thick with a native New Yorker’s accent. “Ms. McCone,” she said, “I spoke with the late Caro Warrick recently. She told me you’d agreed to conduct an investigation for her.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Have you had any success so far?”

  “I’ve learned a few things that didn’t come up at Ms. Warrick’s trial, but I’m afraid I can’t discuss them. Even though my client is dead, I’m still bound by the rules of confidentiality.”

  “Well, my publisher, Wyatt House, and I want you to go on with the investigation. This book is going to be written, especially now that someone seems to have gone to the ultimate to prevent it.”

  “You think the book is the reason she was attacked?”

  “I suspect so.”

  “Do you have authorization to hire me?”

  “Yes—a firm contract giving us the rights to reassign any investigative work in the event of her incapacity or death.”

  So I was right: Caro had been afraid of something happening to her.

  “What about her family or heirs?”

  “I’ve already spoken with her brother and sister: they have no objections. I understand her parents may not like it, but they’re not party to the contract. As for her heirs, I doubt the gun control organizations she left the bulk of her money to will object to having the truth revealed.”

  “Her death is now an official murder investigation. I’d have to clear my work with the SFPD.”

  Goldstein laughed harshly. “If they’re anything like the NYPD, they’ll be delighted to share the case with you.”

  “True enough.”

  “Do we have a deal?”
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  “I’ll have to check with someone at the police department, but yes, I don’t see why not.”

  “Same terms as your contract with Ms. Warrick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Draw up a new one with Wyatt House as the client, and e-mail it to me.” She gave me her e-mail address and hung up. No nonsense with this woman. No grief at the loss of her author, either.

  I phoned the SFPD and asked who was handling the Warrick murder.

  Inspector Devlin Fast. Did I wish to be transferred to him? Yes.

  I knew Fast: he was tough-talking but fair and willing to cooperate with the private sector. A son of the Hunters Point ghetto, he’d graduated the police academy first in his class and risen to the elite Homicide squad in record time. It turned out he wasn’t available, but I left a message on his voice mail.

  Next I called for Mick to come to my office, and gave him a list of people to run deep background checks on: Jake Green, the witnesses and jurors at Caro’s trial, Jill Starkey, even Ned Springer. The prosecutor, and Caro’s therapist Richard Gosling. In short, anyone who had even had a remote connection with her during the time since Amelia Bettencourt was murdered.

  “Tall order, Shar,” he said. “Derek’s caught up on a big fraud project for Thelia, and I—”

  “I understand. Do whatever you can. Give it to me in bits and pieces.”

  After I’d gone over and signed a few more bits of correspondence I took the little elevator down to the first floor. Kendra Williams, Ted’s assistant and our temporary receptionist until we could find a good new hire, wasn’t at her desk. I skirted it and went into his office.

  When he heard me come in, Ted stood. He wore another new silk suit, his tie loose at the neck and rumpled. Like the suit it was blue, but covered with small pinkish splotches that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be mermaids.

  He saw me frowning at the tie and said, “A Christmas gift from Neal. He’s got weird taste. It’s the first time I’ve had the nerve to wear it.”

  Usually his life partner’s taste was impeccable. I peered again at the mermaids. They were carefully rendered, right down to the smallest scale and largest tit.

  “A joke?” I asked.

  “I hope. There was a gleam of sadistic satisfaction in his eyes when he saw I had it on this morning.”

  “Mmmm.” I sat down on the edge of the desk.

  “What’s happening?” he asked. “You didn’t come down here to check on my attire.”

  “We need a new contract in the Warrick case. Wyatt House, the publisher.”

  “Will do.” He scribbled down the details I gave him.

  I remained where I was when he was finished.

  Ted said, “I promise I won’t wear any more faggy ties to the office.”

  “I don’t care if you go around in drag. I have a question for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “What would you think of us merging with RI?”

  He sat down heavily. “When did this come up?”

  “Well, Hy mentioned it in the fall, but he let the subject drop until last night.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “You’ve got to admit there are certain advantages.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You see any disadvantages?”

  “Well… Look, Shar, we’ve all worked hard to build this agency, especially you. Do you really want to see it absorbed into a huge corporate entity?”

  “No, but really…”

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of rejecting Hy’s offer? Harming your marriage? He doesn’t have that kind of ego.”

  “I know.”

  “But you have reservations, right?”

  “Yes. Maybe it’s that as I get older I don’t want to make changes or take risks.”

  He hooted. “You?”

  “Sounds stupid, doesn’t it? Or maybe it’s just…January.” Rain had started to spatter the windowpanes again.

  “Maybe. Don’t rush into anything, that’s all I have to say.”

  “I won’t.”

  He changed the subject. “What’s next on the Warrick case?”

  “I’m heading out to corral some people who won’t want to talk with me.”

  10:37 a.m.

  Caro Warrick’s parents again didn’t answer their phone, but there was a new message on the machine in a woman’s voice.

  You’ve reached Betsy and Ben. We’re off for two glorious weeks in Cabo, but we’ll check frequently for your calls. Adios.

  Not a very smart message because it was an open invitation to any caller who might be inclined to commit burglary.

  The Warricks had left before anyone was able to notify them that their eldest daughter was dead. I wondered if they would have postponed their trip had they heard.

  No sooner had I ended the call than Inspector Fast phoned. I told him I had been hired by Caro Warrick and asked if it was okay with him if I continued the investigation for her publisher. As I’d expected, he had no problem with that, and we made an appointment to discuss the case that evening, since he was working a late shift.

  The day before, Rob Warrick had given me a set of spare keys to Caro’s apartment and signed a permission slip to allow me to visit the premises in case the landlord objected. I decided to see if there was anything revealing in Caro’s former home.

  11:50 a.m.

  Caro’s apartment smelled even mustier on this morning than it had on my previous visit. I left the door open—the rain had eased up, leaving the air warmish—and opened a couple of windows. Then I sat down on the sofa, closed my eyes, and tapped into the feeling of the place.

  It’s long been my opinion that, even after a person has vacated a given location, an aura of them and what they did there remains. It’s mystical and New Agey and I wouldn’t admit it to my clients or in court, but it works for me. And in my profession, you use any tool that’s effective.

  As my breathing grew deeper, my hearing became keener. Bird sounds in the backyard, the creaking of an old joist in the ceiling. A TV mumbling somewhere, muted traffic sounds. Someone bouncing a basketball on the next block. The smell of mildew and aromatic wax was stronger. Under it a scent—flowery perfume, old-fashioned. Another scent—cleanser from the kitchen. I licked my lips: they tasted dusty, like the air around me.

  My skin was tingling now. I felt a sudden chill from the open door and windows, then a rush of heat. My own heat. It faded, and I kept my eyes closed and let the impressions flood over me.

  Unhappiness, yes—that was to be expected—but it was leavened with hope. And something else. Fear—just a little, such as one might feel when embarking upon a new enterprise. And another emotion… It eluded me.

  Something I hadn’t experienced, perhaps?

  I slumped farther back on the sofa. The emotion became stronger. Anxiety…something hidden…something that somebody might find out…

  I opened my eyes, stood up, and started searching.

  Caro’s possessions were few and orderly. Neatly folded underwear, neatly hung clothing. Her bed was made with tight corners. The bathroom was sparkling clean and smelled of shampoo. There was a grocery list tacked to the refrigerator by a magnet: cereal, bananas, chicken, veggies. Only milk and eggs and condiments were inside. She’d been due for a shop. In a low drawer I found files: rent receipts, tax returns, a copy of her lease for the apartment.

  What interested me was the lack of truly personal items: photographs, letters, mementoes. The past didn’t exist here. Nor did the future except in the presence of the will. And the feeling of hope.

  I closed the windows, made sure the door was locked, and went to talk with the landlord.

  12:47 p.m.

  Mrs. Cleary must have been nearly eighty, with wispy white hair and deep vertical facial wrinkles. She hadn’t been informed of her tenant’s death and when I told her, her smile crumpled and her eyes sheened with tears.

  “That poor girl,” she said, clasping her heavily veined hands to her breasts.
“She had such a tragic life.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Two or three days ago. I can’t remember exactly. She was taking her mail from the box that’s attached to the side of the garage.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “Her voice was pleasant as always. I don’t see so well any more, and the sun was in my eyes, so I’m not sure how she looked. But she sounded fine. After that I heard her—or someone—downstairs.”

  “Or someone?”

  “Well, Caro’s step was light, quick. A couple of times I heard a heavier tread.”

  “Could it have been mine?”

  She squinted at me. “No, you’re too slender. The footsteps I heard must have been a man’s.”

  “What time was this?”

  “In the evening. Before ten; I go to bed at ten.”

  “Can you narrow down the time frame?”

  She frowned. “My granddaughter had called. She always calls at eight to check up on me. We didn’t talk for long; nothing notable had happened to either of us. So maybe I heard the footsteps at a quarter past eight.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about Caro’s last days?”

  She thought, shook her head. “Nothing. She came and went so quietly—and now she’ll never come home again.”

  1:10 p.m.

  Since it was midday on a Friday, it seemed a poor time to canvass Caro’s neighbors, but I decided to give it a try anyhow. I had a quick sandwich at a nearby deli and then went up and down both sides of her block, talking with those who were home. None of them had known of her death, and all expressed sorrow. Caro had not been close to them, but they knew her story and sympathized with her.

  “She brought me some homemade apple butter just last October,” a chubby, balding fellow said.

  “She babysat for my kids once in a while,” a young mother told me. “I wasn’t afraid to leave them with her; I knew she was innocent. And they loved her.”

  “Why would anybody want to kill her?” an older man who was mowing his minuscule patch of front lawn asked. “She’d had more than her share of sorrow and still was as kind a woman as you’d ever hope to meet.”